“A queer reason,” said Harrison.
“Mr. Bonnington said so, too. The place was fitted with power so why didn’t they use an electric kettle? Mr. Sleet explained that he was trying to save his employer’s pocket. And Lewis said there wasn’t a word of truth in the whole story. He tackled Mr. Sleet, who answered that if Mr. Bonnington said there was a smell of methylated spirit it was no use arguing with him. Far better find a plausible reason for it.”
“Very bright,” commented Harrison.
“But next day, according to Lewis, Mr. Sleet went even further. He actually produced a small spirit stove which really did smell of methylated spirit, and showed it to Mr. Bonnington with great pride as the nuisance he complained about. Mr. Bonnington laughed and said he would rather pay anything for boiling their kettle than have that thing about the office.”
“Mr. Sleet is very thorough,” said Harrison, “but possibly he has a complete understanding of Mr. Bonnington.”
“At any rate, Lewis was very angry about the whole thing,” went on the young woman. “It sounds rather silly now, I know, but it was typical of Lewis. He was as straight as a die, and even an absurd trick like that, and Mr. Sleet seemed to think it was a wonderful joke, at the expense of someone he respected, made him indignant.”
“As straight as a die,” repeated Harrison.
“You do believe me, don’t you?” she asked, with painful anxiety.
“You have nothing more to tell me?” parried Harrison.
“You haven’t answered my question,” cried Mrs. Cant. “You must believe me, Mr. Harrison.”
Harrison did not speak. The young woman’s face was alight with the flame of her intense trust in her dead husband. He felt he saw unalloyed sincerity, untroubled by any trace of fanaticism or hysteria.
“I think I do,” he replied, at length.
“Think,” she repeated, scornfully.
“No, I was wrong,” he said, solemnly. “I do believe you.”
This remark was greeted by such a radiant look of gratitude that Harrison could hardly believe he was looking at the same Mrs. Cant who had opened the door to him a short while before.
“And now what do we do?” he asked.
“I’m so happy, I don’t care,” was the reply. “Anything you say.”
“There are points about your story,” said Harrison, “which neither of us understands. We may have a long and difficult job in front of us. Although I cannot say now in what way, I may need your very active help.”
“Only give me the chance,” she cried, enthusiastically.
“I wonder what Henry will think of me,” thought Harrison to himself as he left the house a little later, carrying as spoil a map marked with a heavy black cross and the address of a certain Dorice Locket.
Chapter VII
Two Actors Appear
As Harrison had expected, Henry received his report of his visit to Mrs. Cant with marked lack of enthusiasm. Being somewhat susceptible himself, Henry was firmly convinced that his master was even more so and was the easy prey of women, especially those who suggested they were in distress. He admitted that Harrison had often been a match for the designing type, such as the famous Jeanne de Marplay and Anita Brassard, but when it came to the tearful kind, such as he assumed Mrs. Cant to be, he lost all sense of proportion.
Harrison smiled forbearingly as Henry almost lectured him in this strain and reproached himself for letting his master go alone to see the lady in question. His sentimental side had been caught, as it always would be, by a clever woman with a good story to tell and a tear to shed.
“So you don’t think I’m trusted to go out alone, Henry?” asked Harrison.
“You know what I mean, sir,” said Henry, doggedly, “you’re much too good-natured, that’s all.”
“And haven’t your experience of women?”
Henry looked for a twinkle in Harrison’s eye, but could not find it. “I don’t pretend to any great experience,” was his answer, in a tone which modestly suggested that he did, “but, if I may say so, you trust them until you find them out, while I think one ought to find them out before one takes the risk of trusting them.”
“Really, Henry,” said Harrison, “that’s shockingly cynical. Even then your remarks hardly apply to Mrs. Cant.”
“I am afraid that is a matter of opinion, sir,” replied Henry.
“I’ve decided to back my opinion by doing what I can for her,” said Harrison.
“I realise that, sir,” said Henry, heavily.
“And you’re going to help me, Henry, and you’re going to like Mrs. Cant.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Don’t be so gloomy about it, Henry.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to seem disrespectful, sir, but here we have a difficult enough job in trying to do something about Mrs. Norton and you go off at a tangent on another problem altogether.”
“Is it another problem, Henry?”
“You don’t mean to say they’re connected, sir?” asked Henry, his eyes bright with excitement.
“No, I don’t.”
“I thought not,” commented Henry, gloomily.
“But they might be.”
“How, sir?”
“You’ve been bullying me so hard, Henry,” said Harrison, “that I think you ought to try and work it out for yourself. Have a shot at it.”
“That means you do think they are connected, sir.”
“They may be.”
“The death of a well-known actress in the country and of a solicitor’s clerk in London and six months between. It’s a bit far-fetched if I may say so, sir.”
“Try again.”
“There’s the coincidence of suicide.”
“That won’t do, Henry, Mrs. Cant says her husband didn’t commit suicide.”
“I know, sir, it’s difficult to believe that Lewis Cant was such a complete cad,” answered Henry. “Especially after what Mrs. Cant told you. I’m ready to grant all that. But what else can one think?”
“We needn’t go into that for the moment,” said Harrison. “But there is one very curious thing about the two cases which must have struck you as forcibly as it has struck me. Mrs. Norton committed suicide and Mr. Bonnington is certain it was an accident—”
“And the other way about with Cant,” said Henry.
“Exactly,” answered Harrison. “In each case Mr. Bonnington seems particularly anxious to proclaim the opposite opinion.”
“It may be only a coincidence, sir,” commented Henry, doubtfully.
“But a strange one.”
“That’s true, sir,” said Henry. “But where does it get us to?”
“You can’t expect me to answer that straight away, but when you recall that the only interesting point in the Norton case is a telephone call connected with Mr. Bonnington and that the first inquiries we make about him lead to this odd story about Lewis Cant, you must admit that it’s worth following up. Especially in view of Mrs. Cant’s story.”
“The Bonnington business is certainly very queer, sir.”
“I’m glad we agree on that, Henry,” said Harrison. “So queer that we have to follow every line connected with it.”
“And, I suppose, the next move is to call on the person named Locket?” said Henry, incredulously.
“Obviously,” answered Harrison.
“And what if she mentions the name of another young woman, you then go and call on her?”
“Really, Henry,” said Harrison, sharply, “I don’t know what has come over you.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” was the contrite answer, “but it’s all so different from your usual way of going about a case. If I may say so, it’s so untidy.”
“That’s better, Henry,” said Harrison. “Now you’re talking sense. Don’t you see that we’re up against something that’s a bit too tidy. Sybil Norton’s death is too neat; so is Lewis Cant’s, for that matter.”
“You keep on conne
cting them, sir?”
“Why not?”
“Just because they both have something to do with Bonningtons?”
“Not entirely, Henry. They seem to fit in somewhere, and I am merely following the only lines available at the moment to see where they lead. It is untidy, I admit that, but the very tidiness I think I’m up against gives me little chance of trying any other method.”
“Then it is something big, sir?”
“If it’s what I think it might be, it’s something very big, Henry.”
“Professional blackmail?”
“We have mentioned the possibility already.”
‘‘I’m sorry I was rude, sir,” said Henry, gravely; “I didn’t realise you saw so much in it.”
Harrison looked affectionately towards him and then said, “Now we can both get down to it and, as a reward, you shall chaperon me when I visit Miss Locket.”
“And when will that be, sir?”
“Tomorrow. About lunch time.”
“Lunch time?”
“Yes, Henry, most suitable.”
The conversation was thereupon rudely disturbed by Eric of the red head, who practically fell in through the door and then closed it carefully behind him.
“He’s back, sir,” cried the boy, excitedly.
Henry was almost paralysed by the audacity of such an irruption, and turned upon his assistant to administer a stinging rebuke.
“I suppose you mean Mr. Castor, Eric?” said Harrison, before Henry had the opportunity of speaking.
“Yes, sir, the actor,” answered the boy, his eyes sparkling. “And he’s got someone with him, another actor, I should say.”
“What do you make of them, Eric?”
“The one who came before seems more excited than ever, sir, but the second one looks terribly gloomy.”
“This sounds very interesting,” said Harrison. “Better show them in at once, Henry. And, by the way, Eric, I would advise you not to overdo your enthusiasm about my visitors. Your nerves will never stand the strain, you know.”
Mr. Ben Castor and his friend, whom he introduced as Percy Harringway, were quickly ushered into Harrison’s room, Castor marching in with fine dignity and his companion slouching in slowly behind him. Harrison noticed that their dress suited their different manner. The one was arrayed in well-cut if somewhat ornate garments while the other was dressed in a blue serge suit of senile shine, not too well fitting, and carried a very seedy hat.
“Mr. Clay Harrison,” boomed Mr. Castor, “would that I had not to call on you today. Would that Sybil Norton were still alive and had made my visit unnecessary. But Fate’s decrees have gone forth. Sybil, poor girl, is dead, and my duty is clear.” Here he gave his companion a terrific glare, “Painfully clear.”
Harrison took advantage of the actor’s pause for effect to request him to sit down, himself feeling at a painful disadvantage when thus rhetorically addressed by his visitor with a wealth of gesture from the other side of his desk.
“I am grateful to you for calling, Mr. Castor,” he said, when his invitation had been accepted, the seedy Mr. Harringway having bestowed himself on a chair in the remotest possible corner of the room.
“Gratitude is not enough,” came the amazing reply. “Action is what I seek, and action is what I trust I shall find. They said that Clay Harrison was investigating the fate of poor Sybil Norton.”
“They?” asked Harrison.
“The world,” was the actor’s explanation. “The world that knows, Mr. Harrison. I, too, poor, humble, Ben Castor, have heard the name of Clay Harrison and I am glad. So I seek you out.”
“I am sorry I missed you yesterday.”
“I repeat that I am glad. Even then providence was playing her ace of trumps. For yesterday I came but to offer my help. Today I can do more. I come to tell you what I have accomplished. Yesterday was conjecture. Today brings certainty.” The actor paused and then bellowed, “Mr. Harrison,” as if addressing the last person standing at the back of a theatre gallery.
Harrison almost jumped out of his chair at this sudden thundering of his name.
“Well?” he said, tamely.
“I must make a request,” announced the actor.
“What is it?” asked Harrison, wondering what could follow such a volcanic prelude.
“I must tell my story in my own way,” was the answer, “or not at all.”
“Of course,” said Harrison; “but you will not object to an occasional question?”
“If that is where your duty lies, be it so,” said the actor.
“For some years before she married Norton, I acted in the same company with Sybil. We were friends. More than friends, if I may say so. But don’t misunderstand me. I was like a father to her and Sybil was a daughter who came to me with her troubles, great and small.” He looked balefully at Mr. Harringway and repeated dramatically, “Great and small,” with terrific emphasis on the first word.
“So when I heard of the sad event,” he went on, “I spoke with her nearest and dearest, for Norton if I may speak in my own praise, valued me for Sybil’s sake, and I was told that all was not well, that Sybil had not passed away through accident, that she had taken the gun to herself, that you, Clay Harrison, the detective par excellence had been asked to unravel the truth. My next step was obvious. Without taking thought, I came straightway to you, as I have said, to offer my humble services. But providence kept you from me, decreed that you should be absent at that critical moment. When my disappointment had abated, I began to think, and then I understood. The help I could give you was under my very nose, but not to be seen without the spectacles of calm consideration. And this, Mr. Harrison, this is what I understood.” He paused for effect and then, pointing at his self-effacing companion, said sternly, “There stands the wretch responsible for this vile and horrible event.”
The “wretch,” who was certainly not standing, looked pathetically at Harrison but did not speak.
“Really, Mr. Castor,” said Harrison, “I think you must explain in much greater detail before expecting me to believe such an accusation.”
“I can, Mr. Harrison,” was the dignified reply; “and now propose to do so. It was early in the days when Sybil and I were working together—”
“Four or five years ago?” asked Harrison.
“Quite. Or a little more. She came to the theatre in great distress. Her acting was affected. All the sparkle seemed to have gone forth from her. For days I questioned her, but she gave me evasive replies. Then one night the truth boiled from her mouth as from a cauldron, and the reason for her trouble was this pleasant gentleman, Mr. Percy Harringway. When she was a very young and obscure actress she had been friendly with him in a touring company. Strange as it may sound, very friendly. In fact, stranger still, she fell deeply in love with him. So much so that she wrote him those affectionate but very indiscreet letters that an impulsive and emotional girl would write in such circumstances. I trust I am not indulging in over-statement, Mr. Harringway?”
The seedy figure shrank at being addressed and then murmured, “Oh no, not at all.”
“Thus far agreed,” went on Castor, with a look which seemed to claim the wondering approval of Harrison, “their ways parted. Sybil went on and ever upwards and Mr. Harringway,” his voice reached a high pitch of ironic politeness as he pronounced the name, “went down. Sybil had well-nigh forgotten these youthfully indiscreet effusions when lo and behold, out of the darkness to which he had disappeared, came Mr. Harringway demanding money in lieu of damage to her reputation. And she paid. Until his demands, as fitted one of his tribe, became too outrageous to meet. You will deny that, of course, Mr. Harringway?”
“Why should I?” was the other man’s weary reply.
“True, why should you?” exclaimed Mr. Castor. “What did I do then, Mr. Harrison? Why, what every real man would have done in my place. I went to call upon Mr. Harringway. He was acting in some third-rate company in Manchester, but was he staying in the lo
dgings which his stipend would permit? Believe me, he was doing himself extremely well at an excellent hotel—on Sybil’s money. I followed him back to his room from the theatre and there confronted him. The wretch went green. You will, I trust, recall our meeting, Mr. Harringway?”
The other nodded drearily.
“He wriggled vilely, even suggesting that I should buy them myself for a lump sum. I threatened chastisement if he did not produce them immediately, and he searched in a cupboard for them, for he said he had concealed them carefully. He was so long searching that I urged a little more dispatch and finally he produced a packet of letters. Then the cunning wretch said he did not trust me. He would not hand them over to me for fear I myself might make a profit from them. I, Ben Castor, Sybil’s friend. Not only that, but he threatened to summon help if I became violent and tried to take them from him. The cunning hound suggested that he should burn them in my presence, and then I should be satisfied. Simpleton that I was, I was so overjoyed at the thought of their destruction that I agreed and departed with a happy heart. The sudden realisation of my folly came yesterday.”
“That he had not burned the letters at all?” asked Harrison.
“Of course,” was the reply. “You see in a moment what it took me years and poor Sybil’s death to realise. The more I thought of it the more I saw that Mr. Percy Harringway had been up to his tricks again, and this time had driven his victim to suicide. It was crystal clear.”
Harrison looked at his other visitor and could not believe that the position was quite as crystal clear as Mr. Castor claimed.
“So I searched for Mr. Harringway,” went on Castor, “and found him, as I thought I should, in a low public-house off Leicester Square. As I approached him, I could see the guilt in his face. Without preliminary warning, I said to him at once, ‘You did not burn Sybil’s letters that night.’ And he confessed. But more than that, he told a rambling story that he had lost them and was afraid to admit it to me. Lost them? Was ever a poorer lie concocted? So I said he could tell that story to Mr. Clay Harrison and convince him if he could.”
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